Band of Brothers: The Lucky Few
by Aithne
Summary: AU, Rated for language. This follows Easy Company from Bastogne to the end of the war through new interactions and new battles. New battles and never-ending obstacles threaten Easy Company. How will they survive?


**Disclaimer: **I own nothing but the plot. How depressing that is.

**A/N: **Well, I'm hoping to turn this in to a chapter story. It'll be full of AU stories, tracking Easy from Bastogne through to the end of the war. If you enjoy it, be sure to let me know…ok? This story takes place before Episode 7. I hope you like it, and please review so I know if I should continue. Thanks much!

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Band of Brothers: The Lucky Few

Unanswerable Questions 

________

"You should get washed up, Doc."

He looked down at his blood-soaked pants, his hands dripping with the ruby-red liquid of life. His hands had been stained for weeks now, bloodied from the many barrages from Kraut artillery in which these young men became mutilated, limbless, faceless…lifeless. He had bandaged so many wounds and used up so much morphine that his supplies were running dangerously low. Informing both Lipton and Winters, he hoped that they would be able to access medical supplies; but he also knew that due to their current situation, they would have a hell of a time transporting anything to a company that was almost totally surrounded by the enemy.

"Doc?"

Roe looked up into the imploring face of Buck Compton, and nodded incoherently. "Yeah….yeah, washed up," he muttered, standing up and wiping his hands on his pants. He looked down once more at the now lifeless body of a young soldier – probably about twenty-one at most – who had been killed by machine gun fire from across the field. The boy looked like he was in a calming sleep, his head resting gently on the snow-covered earth. The only hint that gave away his true condition was the blood still seeping through three wounds in his chest.

"Doc, it's not your fault," he heard Buck say sympathetically.

So perhaps it wasn't his fault. Did that make things any better? Did that bring back the son who had just died, the brother who was lost forever? Would it ease the pain of the family who would never see their loved one buried in the country they died defending? Roe shook his head gently, lamenting the day they randomly picked him as a medic. It was true that he would have to face the fatalities of the men around him even if he weren't a medic, but he wouldn't have to face death day in and day out, desperately trying to compress the femoral artery in a nineteen-year-old's leg to prevent him from bleeding out.

Sure, being a doc guaranteed you more protection and admiration from the men and the COs and the company. But now, after what seemed like an endless eternity of death and blood, Roe would give anything to be a regular company soldier. 

Standing up, he wiped his cold, sweaty brow with the back of his hand and sighed inaudibly. Offering one final, silent prayer to the young man who he had failed to save, Doc replaced his helmet, nodded curtly to Buck, and retreated towards his foxhole. The soft sound of his feet contacting the dainty snow was the only audible sound aside from the wind. It was dusk and whatever warmth the sun offered through the cloudy sky was beginning to fade. He felt the damp wetness begin to embrace him once more, and shivered as he thought about another night sleeping in the frozen earth, curled up in a ball, his helmet to one side and his medic pack to the other. There seemed to be no reprieve from the sinking, icy feeling in his gut that seemed to originate from the knowledge that tomorrow he would be doing the same thing: living out of a hole, bandaging up dying young men, injecting them with morphine to make the trip out of life more comfortable for them, desperately trying to stay warm, dodging enemy fire day in and day out. It had all made Doc question what the point of this whole mess was.

But none of that mattered. What mattered was that he was here and now, in Bastogne, and his job was to save as many lives as possible. What _could_ have been and what _should_ have been made no difference when a man was out on the battlefield; what mattered was staying alive, and hoping to God that your friends would stay alive too. 

As he plopped down in his foxhole and adjusted his body so he was as comfortable as possible, he heard footfalls coming up from behind. Too exhausted to turn his aching body and not in the mood for a conversation, Roe closed his eyes and concentrated on the soothing blackness of his eyelids, trying to avoid the thoughts of the mangled bodies from today's barrage, the pitiful cries for help and the moaning of injured men…

"Hey, Doc?"

Roe didn't say anything. The darkness surrounding him was too peaceful. 

"Doc? You okay?"

Forcing himself to open his eyes and look up, Roe found himself face to face with George Luz. "Hey…what's the problem?"

Luz shrugged, looking as if he was wondering how he should start. Finally, he spoke. "I was wondering if you had heard about the bad virus goin' around."

Doc Roe nodded. George Luz wasn't the only man to question him about the extent of the flu. "Yeah, I heard about it. News travels fast."

"Is it true that a few people have died of it?"

He shrugged, trying to rub sleep away from his eyes. "To be honest, I haven't heard anything about it." Stifling a yawn, he glanced up at Luz and noticed a dark expression dominating his face. "Why? What's wrong?"

Luz shrugged. "Enough of us is dying out here from the Krauts, and now we have to die of the damn flu too."

"Yeah," he nodded sympathetically. "Yeah."

In the few moments of silence that followed, Doc was glad he didn't tell Luz to what extent the flu had been an issue. It was true that several had died because of it – more than several. In fact, nine reported cases of death due to the virus had surfaced, and because of its contagious nature, the number was probably going to increase by leaps and bounds. But he had learned a long time ago not to tell the men what they didn't need to know; Luz had enough to worry about. He didn't need to hear about the panic the virus was causing back at the aid station.

As an afterthought, more precautionary than anything else, Roe asked, "Does anybody seem to be sick?"

Luz thought for a moment and then shook his head. "Nah, not anyone I can think of now. I have heard that Winters was suffering bad."

Doc frowned. "Really?"

"Yeah," he nodded sympathetically. "Heard he's been outta sorts for a few days now."

"I hadn't heard anything," Roe commented, folding his arms across his chest and readjusting himself in his foxhole.

"Well, you need to get yourself some new sources of information, Doc," Luz smiled, slapping him on the shoulder. "Alright, I'm outta here. I'm planning on getting at least some sleep before we get bombed the shit out of tonight by those Kraut bastards. Take care of yourself, Doc," he added, standing up and walking away.

"Yeah, you too."

Closing his eyes and resting his head as softly as he could against the frozen rock of his foxhole, Doc Roe prayed the soldiers who he knew would die tomorrow, for their families, and for his own safety. But, most of all, he prayed for this hell called war to end.

~*~

"Don't get offended. I'm just saying you look like complete shit," Nixon commented, rubbing his hands together to keep warm.

"You don't look like a pot of gold yourself," Winters responded, squinting his eyes against the harsh winds which blew the snow into their tent. 

"Yeah, well, if you could see yourself you'd know what I'm talking about."  
  


"Nix, drop it. I'm fine. I just have a cold," he protested again, slightly annoyed. 

Nixon caught the message and held up his hands. "Fine, fine. Be the dumb bastard who dies because he refused to go to the aid station with 105 fever. I'll be sure to send a package of flowers to your funeral."

Winters rolled his eyes, mumbling something about "not having a fever". Nixon shook his head, still glancing every now and then towards his friend, who obviously was not doing well at all. His skin was even more insipid than usual, his eyes bloodshot and his posture hunched. Nixon had noticed he had become much more lethargic over the past couple of days, waking up later and going to bed earlier. He had caught him throwing up twice, shivering uncontrollably three times, and had overheard a doc telling him to get to the aid station as soon as possible. Of course, Winters had declined, saying that he owed it to his men to be here. Nixon had reminded him that he would be of no service to his men if he were dead due to untreated influenza. 

"It's not the flu. It's a cold," he had responded irritably.

Nixon had believed him. Now, he wasn't so sure.

He knew Winters was stubborn and had always admired it. But now wasn't the time to be playing games. In the dead of winter with only small quantities of rations and hardly any warm clothing available, sickness was running rampant through Easy Company. The men were overtired, undernourished, and cold – all factors that added up to one big, fatal epidemic. Of course, Winters knew this. But, being Richard Winters, it didn't seem to worry him.

Nixon got up and exited the tent, assuring Winters he would be right back. There, he found their aide, O'Malley, a young, bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked boy from Illinois who was as eager as they come. As soon as he saw Nixon exit the tent, he snapped to attention unnecessarily fast. Nixon smiled to himself and wondered how on earth a farm boy from central Illinois had ended up in this great bloody mess called Europe.

"Private O'Malley," Nixon acknowledged, and the boy nodded curtly, still at attention. "At ease, at ease. Don't wanna hurt yourself."

"Yes, sir," the private responded, settling himself down slightly, but still looking so tense that Nixon was afraid he would spontaneously explode.

"I was wondering if you could do me a favor."

The boy's eyebrows rose in surprise, but his willing voice sounded sure and firm. "Anything I can do I'll do, sir."

Nixon smiled. "How about a nice cup of hot coffee?"

"Hot coffee?" the aide repeated, dismay seeping into his voice. Getting a steaming cup of _anything_ wasn't as easy as it sounded.

"Yeah. Colonel Winters is a little under the weather, and I figure since he doesn't drink, he should have the next best thing."

The private nodded and slung his rifle over his shoulder. "I'll do my best, sir."

"Thanks. It's appreciated."

After saluting the aide, Nixon stretched and looked up at the sky. _Still cloudy, _he thought sarcastically as his eyes wandered over the endless gray and white sea above him. _I wonder if the sun ever shines in Belgium. Maybe it's sunny back home…_

His thoughts turned to what it was like back at home amidst the normality of good old America. He questioned whether the people back home knew how serious the conditions were over here in Europe, whether they knew the sacrifices their young men have made and the prices their families would pay. A strange sensation of mixed envy and anger seeped into his gut and he sighed painfully. How would he be able to relate to anyone back home after the war? Would they understand what they had all gone through? To whom would he be able to relate to after this all was said and done? Would he be forever a changed man, or could he return to his normal self as he was before the war?

Nixon was hopeful, but he knew that from what Easy Company had been through, he would only truly be able to relate to them on a level that was unknown to anyone else.  

With his thoughts trailing off into the wind, Nixon shivered and folded his arms to keep in as much heat as possible. He noticed that it had just begun to flurry, and with the wind picking up, he knew it would be a hell of a night for the men. Hoping that they would be able to avoid a blizzard, Nixon inhaled deeply, staring off unseeingly into the snowy distance. What he would give to be home…

"Sir?"

Jolted from his thoughts, Nixon turned to see O'Malley standing beside him, holding a cup of hot, steaming coffee, looking fairly flushed but proud of what he had accomplished. Nixon smiled and said, "Wow, O'Malley. I'm definitely impressed. Where did you get this?"

"The aid station, sir. They're making hot drinks there for the injured and sick," he responded matter-of-factly, handing the mug over to his superior who took it gladly.

"Well, thank you, private. It's greatly appreciated on behalf of Colonel Winters and myself."

The aide smiled despite himself, and nodded fervently. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

As Nixon walked back into the tent to find Winters shivering in the now harshly blowing wind, he walked right up to him, knelt down, and handed his friend the cup. Winters, whose eyes had been closed, opened them to peer down at Nixon questioningly. "Drink it," Nixon urged, handing the cup toward him.

"What is it?"

"Horse manure."

"What?"

Nixon shook his head. "You have no sense of humor, I swear. It's hot coffee. Drink up."

"It's hot?" Winters asked in amazement as he reached out his gloved hand to grasp the mug.

"Yep. And you'll never guess where they made it, will you?"

Winters looked at him, so Nixon answered, "The aid station. They have plenty of it at the aid station."

"Who got it?"

"Private O'Malley – the Irishman from central Illinois. I think you should consider promoting him. I mean, he found you hot coffee in Bastogne, for Christ's sake."

"It doesn't sound like a bad suggestion," Winters commented as he took a sip from the mug. As soon as the liquid touched his tongue, he made a face. "You _sure_ this isn't horse manure?"

Nixon laughed. "I said it was _hot_ coffee, not _good_ coffee, Dick. Now, drink up."

"And you suppose that this coffee is going to make me feel better, even with the flu?" Winters asked, taking another sip. Nixon was glad to see some color returning to his colorless face, his shivering now not as intense, and his posture much improved.

"Nah. But remember, Dick. You don't have the flu," he reminded, smiling as he took a seat next to Winters. "You have a cold."

~*~

"Swear to Christ. Worst conditions I ever saw in my life," commented Bill Guarnere, crunched up in his foxhole with Luz and Malarkey. "Damn Kraut bastards…over there singing while we're over here freezing our asses off."

It was true: the Germans had been singing raucously for the past hour or so, ever since twilight hit, apparently not afraid of warranting the attention of the American troops perhaps only 900 yards away. At first Luz couldn't believe that those Krauts had the audacity to show off like that, incredulously listening to their wild songs and shouts. But now, he was starting to get annoyed.

"Think there's going to be a blizzard?" he asked offhandedly, not really paying attention to anything, but instead trying to block out the singing coming from the other side of the field.

"Oh, I don't know, Luz. What would you call _this?_" Guarnere asked sardonically, motioning up above them where the strong wind gusts and heavy snow was intertwining in an ironic dance with the cold, arctic air. The visibility was terrible – Luz could hardly see five feet in front of him. The heavy, damp snow made it seem colder than it really was, and the strong wind gusts weren't help either. He gritted his teeth to prevent them from clashing together due to his constant shivering, but answered, "Oh…yeah. I'm not paying much attention."

"Apparently," answered Guarnere.

"Are you always in a bad mood, Guarnere? Or are we just lucky enough to experience it day after day after day?" Malarkey piped in, rubbing his hands together profusely. 

Guarnere slapped Malarkey on the shoulder, grinning. "What would I have to say unless I was bitching about something?"

In a moment of silence, both Luz and Malarkey considered his last rhetorical question. Finally it was the latter who answered, "Yeah. Good point."

"You guys heard about the flu goin' around?" Luz asked, trying to keep his mind off of the cold. He could no longer feel his feet, and the body warmth they all created in the rather large foxhole didn't seem to be help either, even though they were sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, practically on top of one another. 

"Yeah, I heard about it," Malarkey commented, nodding his head. "I heard Winters got it. I heard he's not doing too good."

"Winters has the flu?" Guarnere asked, frowning. "Jesus…the best officer we have is down with the flu."

"Funny how things work, ain't it?" came a voice behind them. They all turned and looked up to see Buck staring down at them, shaking his head. "I heard Nixon speaking to Doc Roe. Apparently, Winters doesn't want to go to the aid station…he says he won't leave his men."

"Damn fine soldier," Luz heard himself mutter. The other three men nodded their agreement.

"But Nixon said he wasn't doing well, and wanted the Doc to come and check him out tomorrow morning," finished Buck, folding his arms and blinking hard against the blowing snow. 

"Hope he's gonna be alright," commented Malarkey.

"Of course he's gonna be alright. He's a damn Quaker. They never die," Guarnere retorted.

They all laughed – even Luz. It was a surprise to hear his own laughter after so long with nothing to laugh about. His face stung from the bitter cold and the biting wind, his feet numb and his hands cracked and bleeding. He would kill for a warm, soft bed, a civilized place to sleep for just a few hours at most. He remembered how he had hated the barracks back at training camp at Toccoa, and wondered how he had the balls to complain about the thin mattresses they had to sleep on. He would even be willing to put up with Sobel for another year, and would have gladly run up Currahee with a stomach full of spaghetti another fifteen times just to sleep in a warm, dry bed for a night.

Warm and dry. Now there are two words he had forgotten the meaning of.

"Alright, ladies, I'm off," commented Buck, shaking with cold. "I'm going to try to get some sleep tonight. See you tomorrow."

"Bye, Buck," Luz called at the retreating back. He shook his head – how could anyone be out on a night like this? Not even Lipton was out checking on the men. Rumor had it, however, that Lipton was sick with the flu too. Of course, Luz didn't trust his sources all that much – Guarnere and Malarkey weren't always that knowledgeable about the goings on of Easy Company, and tended to embellish just a bit. 

"It's cold as fuck out here," grunted Guarnere as they stared out into the distant town of Foy, still desperately trying to drown out the drunken singing of the Krauts.

"I think you've mentioned that already, Guarnere," commented Luz, nodding his head in mock thought. "In fact, I think you've mentioned it at least four times in the past five minutes."

"Well it's true, ain't it?" the Italian retorted. "Alright I'm goin' to sleep. Ain't no use in staying up to listen to them bastards sing no longer."

Luz mumbled a hasty goodnight to both Guarnere and Malarkey, but found himself wide-awake. The singing had died down considerably, and Luz rested his head against the cold, hard earth. A heaviness had entrenched itself in his heart when he heard about Winters. Despite the fact that he was now company CO, Luz still held great respect for the man who not only stood up to Sobel, but who constantly risked his life for his men, never abandoning them. He was an amazing, solid leader. Luz hoped that Winters would be alright. Knowing him, however, he probably would be.

Rubbing his eyes, Luz sat up and glanced around the outside of his foxhole. It was eerily silent, save for the howling wind and the random creaking of the tree branches. Contemplating whether or not to leave the now-snoring Guarnere and deeply sleeping Malarkey, Luz finally decided that he would pay a visit to see Lip, just to see how he was doing. 

His boots crunched the snow so loudly in comparison to the heavy silence around him, that Luz thought that, without a doubt, he would awaken anyone within a mile radius. Luckily, everyone seemed to be pretty worn out, and nobody was awakened by his footsteps. The snow still swirled violently, intertwining with the air and making it hard for him to breathe. He squinted against the pelting snow and trudged forward, his head bent into the wind. Finally, he found Lip's foxhole, and saw the sergeant busy cleaning his rifle.

"You're still awake?" Luz asked, jumping into his friend's foxhole. 

"Yeah, can't seem to sleep tonight," came the answer. 

_God, he looks like hell, _Luz thought, aghast. He stared at Lip who seemed to be sweating despite the freezing cold temperatures. His eyes were at half-mast, and he was as pale as the snow surrounding them. He shivered rather violently, and Luz was afraid that Lip was sicker than he had let on to anyone._ Winters and Lipton…made from the same stock._

"You look as sick as a dog, Lip," Luz finally commented after a few moments of silence.

"Yeah, well…it'll pass. It's just lack of sleep, I think." 

Luz knew that even Lip didn't believe what he was saying. "Winters is sick too."

Lip nodded, setting aside his rifle and looking at Luz. "Yeah…yeah, I heard. How's he doing?"

Luz shrugged. "Not sure. Heard he's pretty bad off, actually."

"That's too bad. Winters is a respectable CO...good man."

"That's for damn sure."

Luz watched as the sergeant wiped his eyes with a shaking hand slowly, as if every move pained him. He folded his hands in his lap and leaned back against the ground, his pale, sweaty face glistening against the reflection of the omnipresent snow. Luz frowned. He didn't look good at all.

"Maybe you should talk to Doc Roe," he suggested as off-handedly as he could.

Lip looked at him for a moment before responding. "No, I'm fine."

"You look like hell itself ran you over with a Sherman. You aren't fine."

"Luz, I'm not moving off of the line," Lip said with a determination not to be contested. "I can't leave…not now. The men need me."

_Winters and Lipton…_exactly _the_ _same stock._

"We're grown up boys, Lip. We can take care of ourselves," Luz commented with a twinkle in his eye.

The other man smiled. "Well, we'll see about that. If I get really sick, I'll speak with Doc, okay?"

Luz knew he was lying. He opened his mouth to remind him that he has to think of himself, of his wife back home, of the dangerous conditions he would have to endure even if he was sick. But he closed his mouth, knowing that Lip wouldn't listen to a word he said, and he would just be wasting his breath. Damn good man, Lip. Just like Winters.

"Alright. Just look into it. Don't want you dying on me," Luz joked, slapping Lip on the shoulder. "Well, I should be getting back to my goddamn shithole. Take care, alright?"

"Yeah, thanks Luz. I appreciate it."

"Yup." As he hoisted himself out of Lip's foxhole, a sudden flash caught him off-guard. Luz looked up and saw a bright German flare pass over his head and slowly fade away into the snow-filled night.

Oh, shit… 

Luz felt himself being pulled back into the foxhole by Lipton as machine-gun fire began to fill the air. Shocked at the suddenness of the entire attack, Luz realized, to his dismay, that he had left his rifle back at his own hole. Panic gripped at his chest and he wildly looked around, trying to see if he could possible get to his foxhole without becoming a casualty.

"Keep your head _down_!" Lip urged, pushing Luz's head farther into the foxhole as bullets whizzed by. Luz swore at himself for being so careless and crouched low, wondering how Guarnere and Malarkey were doing. He hoped they were smart and stayed in their foxhole, and wouldn't panic when they noticed he wasn't there.

He should have let them know where he was going…

"Dammit!" he screamed as a bullet zoomed an inch from his neck. How the hell were the Krauts so accurate tonight?

Then, as abruptly as they began, the bullets stopped. 

Silence.

Luz picked his head up only to be pushed back down by Lip. "Come on, Luz! What's wrong with you? Keep your head down, unless you want it blown off," he said threateningly.

Luz nodded, his heart pounding so loudly in his chest that he swore the entire town of Foy could hear it. The blood rushed to his head and his palms began to sweat despite the temperature. He knew what was coming, and was terrified of it.

"I'm going out there to check to see if everyone's okay," Lip commented, grabbing his rifle.

Luz stared at him for a few moments before he reached up and grabbed him by the collar. "Like hell you are!" he exclaimed. "They'll start the barrage any minute. It's too dangerous, Lip. The men are fine…if they're injured, Doc'll take care of them. You stay here and stay out of trouble."

Lip struggled against Luz's grasp, protesting, when the first mortar hit barely ten yards away. Lip threw himself back into the hole and landed awkwardly on his back. Barrage after barrage after barrage of mortar and shrapnel filled the air, and this time, Luz didn't need a reminding to keep his head down. It was so loud he couldn't hear anymore. The wind and snow was so blinding that he couldn't see anymore. Time seemed to stand still. His heart pounded, his blood rushed, his chest tingled. He could smell the burning of wood, as trees set ablaze, and suddenly, almost in a dream-like state, he was transported from the snowy, blood-stained forests of Bastogne to Boy Scouts, when he had just learned how to start a fire. He had earned his long-awaited badge for that moment, and remembered his smiling father boasting to his friends about his crafty son. He remembered how proud he was…he had started a fire all on his own, and had been the first one in his troop to successfully finish the mission.

But this fire was different. This fire ate away at your hopes and dreams, leaving you dead and lethargic inside. It earned you no proud smiles, no pride, no happiness. It left you an empty shell of what you were before. 

Concentrating on the smell of wood to block out the horrors of the scene surrounding him, Luz was suddenly hit with a searing pain on his left shoulder. He cried out in vain, knowing no one would hear him, and looked down to see blood trickling from a shrapnel wound in his shoulder. He swore, assessing the damage, trying to ignore the throbbing pain the pieces of jagged metal were now causing in his torn-up flesh. He reached for snow and pressed it to his wound, hoping to numb the pain until the barrage was over. 

Biting his lip, Luz kept his head down and closed his eyes, silently praying for this to all end…for it to be over…__

_Just end it…end it now…_

And then, it did.

"Luz?"

Lip was shaking him hard. "Luz, you hurt?"

Nauseous from the stink of burnt wood and disoriented from the loudness of the barrage, he could only nod and gesture to his shoulder.

"Oh, Luz. You need a medic."

"No," he managed to say through clenched teeth. "No…let Doc take care of the others before me. It's not bad."

"You're bleeding heavily, Luz, look at yourself!"

Luz looked down and was surprised to see the amount of blood that saturated his clothes – the blood had seeped from his shoulder, down his sleeve, and landing in a puddle on his left pants leg. "Fuck," he said vehemently, sudden anger swelling up in his gut. "God dammit…"

"MEDIC!" Lip screamed, ripping off part of his jacket and tying it as a bandage around Luz's upper arm. "MEDIC!"

"It hurts…shit, it hurts…" he groaned, his face contorted in pain.

"Hold that there, Luz, hold it tight. It'll stop the blood," Lip reassured him. "Hey, Luz…look at me." The other man turned, and Lip was relieved to see he still had his color and his wits about him. "You're alright, Luz, you're alright. Hang in there."

Luz nodded weakly, and Lip screamed once more, "MEDIC!"

"What happened?"

Lip turned to see Buck running towards them, worry etched across his face. "Who's hurt?"

"It's Luz. Bad shrapnel wound to the shoulder," Lip pointed out, moving the bandage slightly to show Buck the damage. "Do you know where Doc is?"

Buck remained quiet for a moment before speaking. "There are a lot worse off, Lip," he said quietly, avoiding his gaze.

"Who? Who's hit?" he asked, frowning. Buck remained silent, still avoiding his gaze. "_Who is it,_ Buck?" Lip demanded.

"Liebgott…shot in the arm twice by machine gun fire. Jones…hit directly with a mortar. O'Connell was shot to death as he was walking to a friend's foxhole. Malarkey was shot in the neck, Guarnere has a head wound – not serious, though," he added as Luz looked up, alarmed from the news about Malarkey and Guarnere. "Malarkey was bandaged up and is fine, so is Guarnere. Got some morphine from Doc, and now they're as good as new."

"And Liebgott?" Lip asked.

Buck lowered his eyes. "Not sure yet. May lose the arm."

"Shit," Luz growled.

"How many others?" Lip asked worriedly.

He shook his head. "Don't know. But it doesn't look good, Lip, it doesn't look good."

A groan from Luz made Lip glance down. He noticed the bandage was completely saturated with blood, and Luz's wound didn't seem to be clotting properly. "You'd better get a medic," Lip said hurriedly to Buck. "He's losing blood."

"Okay. I'll find Doc," Buck commented, and ran off at full speed.

"Yeah…we'll just be here," Luz commented, and Lip smiled. Even in serious pain the man had a sense of humor. 

Lip ripped his pants leg at the bottom, folding it three times to make the bandage thicker. He placed it firmly against Luz's shoulder, and realized, to his dismay, that the wound was still bleeding profusely. Lip looked up at Luz to make sure he still had color in his face, and was upset to see that he had turned slightly paler in the past few minutes. Noticing the bemused look ok Luz's face, however, Lip asked, "You alright?"

"Yeah…yeah."

Silence. Then: "Why are we here, Lip?"

"What?" The question had caught him off-guard.

"Why are we here?"

Lip lowered his eyes to the dank, brown earth. Unable to think of an answer, he slowly shook his head, remaining silent. He promised himself, however, that eventually he would try to find the reason for such a war as this.

But even at that moment, Lip knew there was no answer.

Why are we here? 

He didn't know. But he wasn't about to tell Luz that they were dying for no reason.

~*~

End of chapter one. Chapter two, perhaps? Please let me know by reviewing…Currahee! 


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